A Helping Hand
by Itarille Celebrindal
Summary: A young battle cleric has some trouble preparing for his first battle when he gets a helping hand from an unexpected source.


His hands were shaking as he raised the helm to his head, the metal gleaming in the candlelight of the small tent. Outside the noise turned into a dull buzz, the many sounds of elves preparing for battle melding together until no sound was distinct. He stared at himself in the reflection of his bespelled weapon, a gift from his father meant just for this sort of occasion, though he didn't reach out to lift it from its place upon the makeshift table.

Pale skin was dull, sweat gleamed in the hollows of his cheeks and neck, as he continued to stare, eyes wide. Dark hair slowly disappeared beneath the helm, the long locks hidden beneath the metal meant to protect his head, leaving only the quicksilver grey eyes and fine lips to distinguish the warrior beneath the armoured headpiece. His hands fumbled briefly with his chest plate as he tried to lift it to his body, having forgotten that the chest armour should precede the helm in his state of nervousness.

The piece fell to the ground with a dull clang, startling the distracted young elf into a cry of frustration. He was leaning over to pick it up when the side of his tent was swept aside, announcing someone's entrance. Suddenly mortified at being caught in this state by his superiors, he stumbled backwards and tried to yank off the helm; they would not let him out if they did not believe he was prepared.

Blinded by his attempts to remove the helm, he was surprised to find slender hands lifting it from his head and setting it aside. He flushed brightly, drawing up bright eyes to see who it was who had given the aid.

It was one of the War Mages in the camp, the Lady Illiandra, an elven woman from his own home of Felwithe. She was seasons older than himself, an experienced War Mage who had seen and fought in several battles. She was dressed not in the usual robes of the casters nor the armour some chose, but in a spectacularly distracting piece of metalwork and cloth that formed what could only be compared to a brassiere and a split skirt of soft cloth, belted in elaborate metal that shifted to reveal bare legs at every movement. A slowly fading scar was visible upon her smooth abdomen and long gold locks spilled over her shoulders, held out of her face by a metallic headpiece that shone brilliantly in the dim light.

"My Lady?" he asked, trying not to stare in confusion at her apparel.

"Nervous?" she asked, giving the younger elf a small smile as she plucked the chest plate from the ground and settled it gently upon his shoulders.

He wet his lips, about to lie, but a sharp look from her frosted blue eyes quickly deterred him.

"A little," he whispered, looking up at her as she continued to latch his armour with deft fingers that had a suspicious amount of practice despite her obvious lack of protection.

"They will make sure you are not injured. The warriors have much more respect for a Battle Cleric than for one who chooses to be content with sitting inside of a tent and waiting for people to be brought to him," the elven woman said confidently, giving him another smile as she patted the last clasp in place before grabbing his leg armour and kneeling before him.

Startled by the sudden view of cleavage, he could only nod numbly and allow her to adjust the armour to his legs until they fit comfortably.

"You've been trained by the best, Talsen, you are an asset to us here."

The wizard stood, picking up the helm once again and placing it, with ever gentle hands, atop his head, sweeping back the dark locks so they did not obstruct his vision. She picked up a mirror and held it up to him, allowing him to see the glittering menace of his armour. He smiled then, suddenly a little more confident.

The mirror was removed, his hammer suddenly appearing in elegant hands as she pressed it into his awaiting ones, calloused from the hours of hard practise he put into them each day. He could feel the comforting surge of magic that flowed through the weapon, the power a warm heat even through the gloves he wore.

When he looked up again, the War Mage was almost out the door.

"Thank you!" he said, trying to catch her before she disappeared.

A broad smile crossed her face as she paused and looked back at him, a faint dimple appearing in her cheek.

"And that is why I don't wear robes or armour," she gave him an impish smirk and was gone, probably to join the other casters.

He stared after her for a moment, then began to laugh softly, grey eyes sparkling. No robes or armour indeed.

Grasping the hammer in hand, he lifted it easily and swept out of his tent. Somehow, the tension had seeped from his bones, allowing him the comfortable walk to where the few Battle Clerics awaited section assignments.

There was something to be said about distractions…even if they came from a deadly War Mage who shared the bed of your commander.


End file.
